The Constant Fisherman: And Other Short Stories

By Dan Zahn

The Constant Fisherman is a collection of short stories presented in two parts.

Section 1 contains four stories that are complete fiction; tales of deceit, unconditional love, pure fantasy, and suspense.
Section 2 is made up of eight true stories taken from the author’s life, proving that sometimes truth can, indeed, be stranger than fiction. Here is where the author displays a wry sense of humor and, at the same time, unsparing honesty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669810209

Dan Zahn

DAN ZAHN has been a portrait artist, a singer/songwriter, a touring musician and a teacher. He spent many years as a cartographer, worked on a survey crew and has clung to the handrail of a 1940 vintage tugboat during a gale on Lake Michigan. He is an avid fly fisherman and has written two novels. Many of his short stories are based on his own true life experiences.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Dan Zahn.

Cover Design by Dan Zahn

Cover art © 2022 by Dan Zahn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 02/07/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

838695

Many Thanks to my support group!

Kate Moretti, Maribeth LaPonte, Toni Haynes,

Quinton Pilat, Paul Noonan, Laura Pikel, Doug Cluts

Jerry Thiel and Mark Andel

Contents

Section One

These are works of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents

are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously.

The Constant Fisherman

The End Of The Line

Bela’s Waltz

Tony Baloney

Section Two

Almost every word is true.

Uncle Dan

A Whale Of A Tale

The Bridge

Buffalo Stew

‘Round The River Bend

My Worst Day Fishin’

The Party

The Permission Slip

Section One

CHANCE IS ALWAYS POWERFUL. LET YOUR HOOK ALWAYS BE CAST; IN THE POOL WHERE YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, THERE WILL BE FISH.

… OVID

MANY MEN GO FISHING ALL OF THEIR LIVES WITHOUT KNOWING THAT IT IS NOT THE FISH THEY ARE AFTER.

… HENRY DAVID THOREAU

The Constant Fisherman

Chapter 1

THE SHAMUS GOES TO CHURCH

There were no trout to catch in the Fox River of northern Illinois, but as far as he was concerned, panfish and the occasional smallmouth bass were good enough reason to be standing knee deep in the river on a Sunday morning. Even on those all too often days when the fish ignored his artful cast of the fly, just being there brought him satisfaction.

Early every Sunday morning other folks would dress up to go and sit among their neighbors in an attempt to gain peace of mind and secure their place in heaven. That was not for Dan’l Coffey. The river was where he found peace of mind; it was in the breeze that carried the sounds of nature through the trees and in the constant motion of the river, it was in the arc of his fly line and in the graceful way it unfurled before him. This was heaven and it was right here on earth.

Dan’l first heard about fly fishing from a guy he met back in ’98. He was one of those Ivy League college guys who signed up to fight with Roosevelt in Cuba. They were both eighteen years old when the 1st United States Volunteer Cavalry charged up Kettle Hill in San Juan Heights; Dan’l and this fella whose name he couldn’t recall. Those who wrote about it called it the bloodiest battle of the war and referred to them as the bravest of the brave. Thanks to those newspapers, they would forever be remembered as Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.

He came home and read up on the art of fly fishing, studied it and came to love it. He’d lost track of that college kid and wondered if he was somewhere back east, fishing with his Ivy League buddies. He never really got to know any of the Ivy League guys in the unit. His friends were the other cowboys; ranch hands who’d worked with him on his uncle’s spread back in Texas. A couple of them came along when he told them he planned to join Roosevelt’s volunteers. These were the guys who started calling him Dan’l when he was just a kid. They all went back to the ranch after the war. Dan’l worked as a dock hand in New Orleans for a while, a mounted policeman in St. Louis and then, for a short time in 1902, a sheriff in a small town up north.

Now, some twenty years later, he was working at solving other people’s problems for twenty bucks a day plus expenses. Officially, he was Daniel Coffey, Private Investigator. Some folks called him a shamus, some called him a private dick; others, who were unhappy with his results, just called him a dick.

At forty-two, Coffey cut quite a dashing figure in his three piece suit and gray Homburg hat. He carried a silver headed walking stick, mostly out of habit, though every now and then it came in handy when that old bullet wound in his left thigh acted up. All in all, with his neatly trimmed mustache and a little bit of gray at the temples, he was the picture of success and confidence, which helped prospective clients decide to put their trust in him.

* * * *

It was just after 6 a.m. on Monday morning when Mick Boylan phoned and asked Dan’l to meet him at St. Peter’s Catholic Church. Mick, a Lieutenant on the Elgin Police force, was in the habit of calling Dan’l rather than relying on his own detectives; most of whom he didn’t trust. In those days many of the cops in Kane County were either on the take, or were in the local chapter of the Klan. It was hard to find anyone to trust.

The church was crawling with cops when Dan’l arrived and Mick Boylan greeted him at the door. The rotting smell of death was in the air.

I’ve managed to keep everyone away from the body, Boylan said. the priest claims that he didn’t touch it so, you have as fresh a crime scene as I can give you."

The priest stood outside a confessional with his head slightly bowed and his hands folded together inside the sleeves of his robe. If he’d had a bald spot at the back of his head, he would have been the perfect image of a monk one could find in a book. He stepped aside as Mick and Dan’l approached. The door to the confessional was open.

Holy shit … was all Dan’l could say.

The naked body was positioned on its knees, ass up, top half inside the confessional. In this position the head should have been facing down or to one side, but the angle of the neck indicated that it was obviously broken. The body appeared to have been drained of blood, yet there was no blood to be seen anywhere. Upon further investigation, a nasty wound was found in the victim’s jugular vein. A large metal crucifix with the image of Christ protruded from the man’s rectum.

Before the Coroner’s men removed the body, Dan’l took a close look at the man’s face. He was a good looking fellow with fair hair and blue eyes.

He turned to Mick and asked, Do you believe in Vampires?

Of course not.

Right, me neither, said Dan’l. What about God, Mick, do you believe in God?

Well, sure … I mean, I guess I do.

Dan’l chuckled, It’s tough isn’t it? With all the things we see in this line of work, sometimes it’s easier to believe in the Devil.

You’ve got a point there, Dan’l. Tell me, what do you believe in?

Dan’l sighed as he observed the shrine in which they stood. As the body was being carried down the front steps, the big double doors of the church slammed shut. The sound echoed through the building, louder than his reply.

I find it hard to believe any of this shit.

Chapter 2

OLIVIA

According to Father Ahearn, Mr. Ronald Combs was a pillar of the community. He owned a successful construction company, and was a veteran of the great war with a wife and a three year old son. The old priest said he’d watched the man grow up. As far as he knew, when the war ended Combs wrote home saying that he loved France and planned to stay there to help with the reconstruction. It was the death of his parents that brought him home some years later.

The business he’d inherited from his father made him a